


Hidden

by ebbj9891



Series: In Quest Of Something [59]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Family Dynamics, Family Issues, Gen, M/M, POV Gus (Queer as Folk), Post-Series, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 16:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2588768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebbj9891/pseuds/ebbj9891
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gus discovers the devastating truth about prom night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to Happily Ever After, which focused on a six-year-old Gus learning about the happier side of prom night. This story is set years later when Gus is thirteen, and will focus on him discovering the whole truth about that night.

I fucking  _hate_ my parents. Let it be known that they're all self-righteous assholes who don't give a shit about me. That's what I'll be writing about when summer break is up. That's what my "What I Learned Over The Summer" essay will be about. Shit, I could write an entire  _thesis_ on how awful the four of them are.

Two weeks ago, before school let out, I got caught playing hooky with Ruby. Our parents went fucking _nuts._ It wasn't even a big deal! We didn't even do anything wrong. What exactly is so terrible about hitting the mall and catching a double feature at the cinema? It's what kids do. All Ruby and I wanted to do was blow off some steam. We work our asses off all year to get straight A's; all we wanted was one day to relax. Apparently that makes us demon children in the eyes of our parents.

Okay, so admittedly, the mall and the movies weren't all we got up to. Afterwards, we went back to Ruby's to listen to music. Then Ruby pointed out that that's what we _always_ do, and what kind of day off would it be if we just did the usual old stuff? So we decided to liven things up just a tiny little bit. Like, a fraction. An infinitesimal amount.

We only had a few sips of tequila. That was all! It was nothing, really. It's not like we got wasted. Ruby got really giggley and... well, okay, I did, too. Is that really such a crime? Ruby's moms sure thought so. They came home early and absolutely flipped out. They called my moms, who called my dads, and so ensued World War Three - Ruby got shipped off to her grandmother's for the summer (which is so fucking unfair!), and I got grounded. I'm not even allowed to go to New York like I normally would - instead of two and half months, I get two weeks. How messed up is that?! To make matters worse, I got sentenced to work at mom's gallery full time. In summation: my best friend is gone, my dads want nothing to do with me, and I'm stuck playing slave to mom from 8 til 6 every goddamned day. Basically, my summer is completely fucked.

Today could have been a great summer's day. It's all clear and sunny outside and I'm sure there's fun to be had somewhere. Maybe in a parallel universe where Ruby hasn't been quarantined from me. Imagining how nice that parallel universe must be, I stare out the glass doors and ignore the hell I'm living in.

Mom comes sweeping out of her office, barely even looking at me. She stops by the front desk and asks distantly, "Gus, can you hand me my sweater, please?"

"It's right there," I snap, pointing at it. Seriously, it's folded on a chair that's an equal distance between the two of us. 

Mom sighs sharply, shakes her head, and goes to fetch it. "I'm going out to lunch. I'll be back in an hour or so."

"What am I supposed to do?"

She looks at me for a while, with this irritating sense of helplessness. "There's lunch for you in the fridge. You can take a half-hour break. You can use my laptop, or read something from the gift shop, or call Deb or Jen. They've been waiting to hear from you for weeks now."

"I thought I'd save them the grief," I drawl, drumming my fingers on the desk. "I'm a huge disappointment, after all."

"Gus," sighs mom wearily. "We love you. Just because you're grounded-"

I can't hear this again. If they loved me, they wouldn't have taken my best friend away from me for three months. If they loved me, they wouldn't have taken New York away from me. Averting my gaze, I mutter, "I don't want to have this conversation again. Just go."

"Okay, fine." She plucks her keys out of her purse.

I scoff and sneer at her. "Gonna lock me in?"

Mom doesn't even bother to look at me this time. She heads out without another word, triple-locking the door behind her. See? I'm totally imprisoned. My summer is completely fucked.

*

To add insult to injury, the lunch that mom has packed for me isn't even good. It's a weird assortment of two-day-old leftovers and it kind of makes me want to barf. I choke it down whilst checking my emails on mom's laptop. There's nothing from Ruby since our parents have implemented a technology ban. Our phones and laptops have been confiscated. Mom is kind of lenient with me; she lets me use her laptop at work and occasionally sneaks me my phone at night so I can text dad and Justin. There's some emails from them today, saying how much they miss me and encouraging me to keep on behaving myself. As soon as I've finished sending some pretty scathing responses their way, I slam mom's laptop shut and storm out of her office in search of something better to do.

Since I started working here, I've read almost every interesting book in the gift shop, I've dusted the place from top to bottom, I've taken new photos of every corner of the gallery to upload to the website, and I've reorganised mom's desk drawers three times over (she keeps messing everything up!). There's nothing left to do. Nothing  _at all._ Dragging my feet, I walk in circles around the different wings of the gallery. I know it all by heart - the layout, the paintings, their artists, their credentials... it was kind of interesting at first but it's all so fucking boring, now. I want something different to look at. 

There is the archive room, I suppose. Mom told me to keep out of there, but it's not like she's going to know. She's probably having one of her boozy lunches with one of her dykey friends. She's probably scandalising them with angsty stories about how terrible I am. Since there's no shortage of those, she'll probably be gone a while.

I grab the keys from her office (if she wanted me to stay out, she ought to have been more careful, shouldn't she?) and head upstairs towards the archive room. There's a sign on the door reading 'Staff Only'. I'm staff, aren't I? I suppose probably not, since mom treats me more like a slave. I'm not getting paid for all of my back-breaking labour (don't even get me started on how unfair that is - I have been working my fingers to the _bone_ , for fuck's sakes). Still, though; I'd say I'm straddling a fine line between slave and staff, and for now, I'm happy to topple over to the staff side.

I unlock the door and ease inside the room. As I switch on the lights, I erupt into a fit of nervous giggles. While I was unlocking the door, I was reminded of that story that Justin used to read to me. What was it called? Right,  _Bluebeard,_ where the lady finds her husband's secret room full of his past wives, all brutally murdered and strung up for show. That story has made me wary of locked rooms ever since. It's not like I thought mom had a bunch of slaughtered wives hidden up here... I don't know what I was expecting, actually. Something more scandalous than this, anyhow.

The archive room is sprawling; it covers the entire second storey of the gallery and is full of shelves that stretch to the ceiling and rows and rows of filing cabinets. There must be hundreds of pieces stored in here. I walk through it, dragging my fingers along the shelves as I go. I don't really know what I'm looking for in here. There's so much that it's kind of overwhelming. Plus, art has never really grabbed me. I like Justin's work. I like hearing mom and Justin talk about art; they both get so passionate, it's all inspiring and shit. I'd never admit that, of course, but sometimes I sit in the room with them and pretend to read, while I'm really listening to the two of them. It's not just inspiring, it's kind of heartwarming. It feels really familiar, you know?

I head deeper into the archives until I hit the latter half of the alphabet. Since art isn't my thing, I seek out the one artist I actually really like. And there he is: Taylor, Justin. There's a huge section dedicated to his work. I may not be pleased with him right now (or any of my asshole parents), but I would like to see what he has kept here.

I just hope it's not more pictures of dad naked. Ugh. I found a huge stash of those the last time I was in New York, hidden in their walk-in closet. I had flung open a drawer in search of... actually, I can't even remember now what I was searching for, that's how badly traumatised I am! In flinging open the drawer, one of Justin's sketchbooks went flying, spilling loose pages everywhere. As I bent down to pick them up, it was like my brain stopped functioning. I froze, drawings in hand, eyes glued to them, slowly processing the following: they were naked sketches, they were naked sketches of a naked person, and they were naked sketches of a naked person who was my naked father. At that point, Justin found me (maybe my screech of disgust had something to do with that) and rescued me from the repulsive spectacle in front of me. He put the sketches away and then, without batting an eyelid, said drily, "That's what you get for snooping. Watch it, Gussy, or next time I'll show you the oil paintings. They're much more... vivid." Then he and dad spent the rest of the day nudging each other and snickering to themselves about the whole thing, like the evil sadists that they so clearly are.

I shudder violently and gag. I seriously need to undergo some sort of treatment to erase that memory. No kid should have to see pictures of their dad with his dick out.  _Ew._ Ew, eww, EW.

Fortunately, these paintings don't seem to involve my father or his naked form. There's lots of scenic pieces and a whole series of portraits, which are really cool. I don't know the people, but there seem to be three of each, like a continuum or something. I pull them out of the shelves three-by-three, laying them out on the floor so I can look closely. I quickly decide on my favourite: it's this girl, with scars all over her. The first painting is of her when she's young, probably close to my age, with open wounds sliced all over her skin and tears streaming down her face. The red paint is so vibrant it makes my eyes sting a little. The second painting is her when she's a little older, with the cuts healed; they're still ugly, but smoothed over and baby-pink. She has tears in her eyes, but none on her cheeks. Finally, the third painting shows her, much older, with aged scars written all over her in white. Her eyes are dry and filled with hope. The paintings make my chest tug; it's not the first time I've had that reaction to Justin's work. Mom always praises him for how emotive his pieces are and she's so right - they really make you feel something, and they make you feel it in droves.

With great care, I return the portraits of the scarred girl to their place and pull out the next three. I keep them stacked together as I place them on the floor. I'm about to spread them out, but then I find myself fixated on the first one. It's Justin. He's really young in this, maybe even younger than he was when he and dad met? I've seen pictures of Justin when he was seventeen (god, dad is such a perv), and he looked older than this. The painting is bright yellow and so cheerful that it brings a smile to my face. Grinning, I pick it up and gingerly place it to one side. Eagerly, I look at the second portrait.

I look at the second portrait...

... I look at the second portrait.

I look at it until my eyes burn and my body hurts from being held so rigidly. It's like that day in their walk-in closet, where I was staring at the pictures and holding onto them, shocked into stillness. Except it's worse. The first portrait was sunshine personified; this one is... this one is... what  _is_ it?!

It's sinister, is what it is. It's all black and white with harsh eruptions of red paint. This red isn't as vibrant as the red splashed all over that girl; it's darker, murkier, like actual, real blood. It takes me an eternity to process that that's what it's supposed to be: blood, spread all over Justin. Except this doesn't look like the Justin I know and love. The person in this painting looks like a corpse. He's utterly lifeless, with a slack face and closed eyes, and... and... and  _blood,_ everywhere, all through his hair and slicked down his face, even collected around his lips.

I can feel this painting, but I wish I couldn't. It makes my stomach sink. It makes my heart hurt. It makes me want to cry.

I back away from it. I don't bother to look at the third one. I run through the archives, searching for the right filing cabinet. When I finally find it, I grab out the file marked:  _Taylor, Justin - Identifying Queerness._ I remember not being allowed to go to this show. They said it was 'for grown-ups'. What the fuck did they mean by that? I throw open the file and pore through its contents. There are brochures and articles everywhere - way too many to choose from. I find myself skimming them, my gut curdling as I reread the same things over and over:

_Taylor was violently attacked..._

_Justin Taylor was the victim of a brutal assault..._

_Taylor survived, but experiences persistent physical and psychological trauma..._

_Of the attack, Justin said, "It nearly destroyed me."_

"Gus!" Mom's shocked cry startles me. I snap my head up and stare at her. She looks from me, to the splayed folder, to the paintings on the floor. "Oh my god."

I hold up one of the articles, which shows a photo of Justin in a hospital bed. "What is this?"

Mom ignores that and flies towards the paintings. Whilst gathering them, she exclaims, "Gus, do you have any idea how valuable these are? You can't be in here, you can't be touching this stuff! I told you to stay out!"

I grab a handful of clippings and shove them into my back pocket. As she turns to face me, I shove the folder at her and demand, "Tell me what the fuck this is."

"Don't swear at me," she warns. "You have  _seriously_ crossed a line today! I'm starting to think you don't deserve to go to New York at all."

We stare at each other intensely. She looks angrier than I've ever seen, but it's no match for the fury boiling up inside of me. I lean in and return her glare with fervour.

Time for World War fucking Four.


	2. Chapter 2

After she's finished stomping around the archives, righting all of my alleged wrongs, mom drags me home. Seriously, _literally,_ she grabs me by my arm and hauls me to the car, then orders me to 'get in right now', or else I'll 'be very sorry'. Then she decides to give me the silent treatment for the entire length of the drive home. And they say I'm the childish one!

As soon as we're through the front door, Melanie is ready and waiting, poised to attack. She's the first to start yelling, but her bullshit lectures are quickly lost in amidst my yelling and mom's yelling. It is, without a doubt, the worst fight the three of us have ever had. They scream at me, accusing me of being 'irresponsible' and 'deliberately disobedient'. They make threats, saying I won't get to go to New York now or at all for the rest of the year. They storm after me through the house, refusing to let me have a moment's peace, insisting on breathing down my neck and treating me like I'm the worst person to ever walk the earth.

But I give as good as I get. Like hell would I ever take this kind of treatment lying down! I scream right back at them until my throat is achingly raw. I accuse them of being deceitful, untrustworthy liars - and that's just the tip of the iceberg, where name-calling is concerned. I know I'm hurting them, but who cares? Not. Me. They _are_ deceitful. They  _are_ untrustworthy. They  _are_ liars. And the worst part? They're sticking to their guns. They refuse to tell me a single thing about those paintings or the attack. They throw all of these bullshit excuses my way, insisting that it's not their place to tell and that the paintings are none of my concern. So since they're stonewalling me, I recite what I saw in that folder: _Justin Taylor was the victim of a violent bashing that nearly took his life. Although he pulled through, the experience incapacitated him, physically and mentally. To this day, Taylor experiences residual trauma from the attack._ Mom sinks into a chair and puts her head in her hands, but I don't stop. Melanie shouts at me to be quiet, but I don't stop. I can't, I won't. I keep going, until my words are coming out all strained and hoarse. Eventually, mom breaks down into a mess of tears, at which point I yell, "Shut up! Will you just shut up, Lindsay? I'm so fucking sick of you!"

She cries even harder. Melanie comes at me. For a moment, I'm seriously scared that she's going to slap me, but she only grabs my arm and holds onto it tight as she hauls me upstairs. As she pushes me into my bedroom, she snaps, "Get in there and stay in there, you ungrateful little-"

"What? What am I?" I shout, daring her to finish that sentence. With uncharacteristic cowardice, Melanie falls silent. It makes me so much madder; I wish she'd just say what she's thinking and be done with it. Now she's turning away and leaving. I'm not going to let her get away with that, so I shout after her, "By the way, what the fuck do I have to be grateful for?! You let Ruby's moms send her away, you banned me from seeing my dads, you turned my summer into complete shit!"

Rounding on me, Melanie snarls, _"You_ turned your summer into complete shit when you broke the rules. You're not supposed to skip school and you're  _especially_ not supposed to spend that time drinking!"

"You're a fucking hypocrite," I yell. "You're all fucking hypocrites!"

Then it all comes pouring out; all the shit that's been on my mind ever since they lumped me with this godawful punishment. I lividly spew out a list of accusations in rapid succession, barely stopping to take a breath: how Justin used to get himself into trouble all the damn time when he was young, how he still smokes even when I've told him to stop, how dad was once the fucking poster-child for substance abuse (they think I don't know these things, but _I do_ _)_ , how moms say that we need to communicate respectfully but they never asked me to explain myself, they just punished me and treated me like crap. And, worst of all, how they've kept some huge secret hidden from me for all of these years, and how I fucking  _hate_ them for that. 

By the end of my rant, Melanie has gone pale. She opens her mouth as though she's about to reply, then closes it, shakes her head, and slams my bedroom door in my face. I kick it hard. Sounding more aggravated than ever, Melanie yells at me to cut it out. Unfortunately, I have little chance to revel in the fact that I've succeeded in pissing her off because my foot is fucking throbbing. I collapse on my bed and groan into the mattress, clutching my aching foot in both hands.

As the pain fades away, I tune back in to what's happening downstairs. I can hear Lindsay sobbing. Melanie is on the phone to dad. I can't hear much of it, at least not until she yells, "I couldn't give a fuck about your stupid meeting, Brian! Get your asses here by tonight, or so help me god-"

So they've decided they can't handle me on their own. Of fucking course. I am a huge burden to them, after all. That's me in a nutshell: a huge, troublesome burden. They've made that abundantly clear ever since they grounded me, but now that I'm hearing Melanie talk to dad like that, it becomes even more painfully obvious. Angered, I pick up the heaviest textbook I can find and hurl it at my door. From downstairs, Melanie thunders, "Gus, STOP IT."

Then she starts talking to dad again and has the goddamned audacity to say to him, "He's crossed so many lines today, I don't even know where to start."

Now, I'm not delusional. I know I've fucked up today. But there is no way in hell I'm going to let Melanie paint me as the villain in all of this. They've crossed lines too. In fact, if those articles are to be believed, they've been crossing lines for basically my entire life by lying to me. So, burning with indignant anger, I hobble over to my door, swing it open, and shout, "SCREW YOU!"

The entire house freezes. Maybe the entire world does. Then Lindsay starts weeping again and Melanie spits down the phone, "Do you see what we're dealing with here? He's your son, get your ass to Toronto  _now."_  


That's how it always is when I'm bad. I'm not her son anymore; I'm dad's, and dad's alone. He always gets the blame for my shitty behaviour. I  _hate_ it. Incensed, I yell, "You don't get to choose when I'm your son and when I'm not!"

"That's not what she meant," Lindsay protests tearfully. I can hear her approaching the stairs. "Gus, please, baby-"

_Baby._ Thirteen years old, and she's still calling me 'baby'. She's still treating me like one, too. I'm so mad I can't see straight. Before slamming the door as hard as I possibly can, I scream, "Stop fucking patronising me!"

I hear her dissolve into tears again, but I don't let it get to me. I throw myself back onto my bed and pull out the bundle of articles from my back pocket. Since they won't tell the truth, I'll just have to figure it out for myself.

*

I read and read and read, until my head is crammed with an overload of gruesome information. Even then, I refuse to stop. I keep reading, even though my head is aching dully and the articles are little more than incoherent assemblages of the same words:

_Attacked. Bashed. Brutalised._

_Injured. Maimed. Incapacitated._

_Enduring. Long-lasting. Permanent._

_Traumatised. Traumatised. **Traumatised.**_

And then there's the images: that painting again, in all its ghastly glory. The crime scene, its borders bound by police tape and its insides slick with blood. Justin, lying in a hospital bed, swathed with bloodied bandages. Justin, at the gallery, standing beside his paintings, forcing a smile for the cameras.

The words carve me up and hollow me out. The images fill that wounded emptiness with screaming pain. My head begins to pulse agonisingly. I can't take this. I don't understand. Why haven't they ever told me about this? How could they lie to me? How could they let Aunty Daphne spin that night into some magical tale of romance? How fucking deceptive, letting her wax lyrical about love songs and kisses. It wasn't a fairytale, it was a fucking nightmare. It didn't end with a 'happily ever after', it ended with Justin right on the precipice of death.

I've known Daphne's version by heart since I was a kid. Well, time to unlearn it. I focus on memorising the _actual_ version of events. The words bleed together until they're one huge, ugly, indistinguishable mass: _attackedbashedbrutalisedinjuredmaimedincapacitatedenduringlong-lastingpermanenttraumatisedtraumatisedtraumatised._

I stop reading when I hear dads arriving. I stash all but one of the articles under my pillow. I stare at the last one, my gaze zeroing in on the picture of Justin in hospital. With a chill running down my spine, I hurriedly tuck the article into my back pocket. Then I leap off my bed and tiptoe over to my door, so I can listen in.

"Okay," dad says, his voice rough, "What the fuck was so important that we had to fly in at a moment's notice?"

That sends me reeling. He sounds so dismissive of it all, like flying in is a huge hassle, like I'm not worth shit to him. Justin sounds similarly irate as he complains about deadlines he's going to miss because of this. It hurts so much I can hardly bear it. They really don't want to see me, do they? They can't stand being here for one fucking night. So not only are they liars, they're total bastards as well. I stare at my bookshelf, right at the third-highest shelf where I keep photos of everyone. I grab the one of dad and Justin and stare at it through tears whilst, downstairs, dad and Melanie commence fighting about whose responsibility I am. I blink back the unwanted tears (unwanted, just like me) and hurl the picture at my door. The glass shatters. Their fighting screeches to a halt.

"Do you see what I mean?" Melanie demands loudly. "You have no idea what he's been like lately-"

I fucking hate hearing Melanie talk about me like that. I'm not going to let her get away with badmouthing me at a time like this. I storm out of my bedroom and halfway down the stairs, stopping mid flight to glare at the four of them. Melanie pauses when she sees me; I take this opportunity to interrupt her. "I've been 'moody' and 'rude' and 'mean-spirited', to name a few. But you know what? I'm not a liar, which is what all four of you are."

"Gus," mom implores weepily, "Please, honey-"

"Please, what? Please forgive all of you for lying?!" I reach into my back pocket and pull out the article. _"_ _At age eighteen, Taylor was violently assaulted by a classmate after their senior prom. The attack caused Taylor significant physical and psychological trauma which stays with him to this day."_  


I look up at them. The colour has drained from Justin's face and mom is clutching his arm, while she continues to cry silently. Melanie is glaring at me like I'm the fucking Antichrist. Dad takes a step towards me and holds his hand out. "Give me that."

"No way," I snap. "Why is this the first I'm hearing about this? Where the hell do the four of you get off, lying to me like this?"

"It's not that simple," dad says. "Give me the article."

He actually has the fucking nerve to reach for it, as though he's about to snatch it. Asshole. Sneering, I toss it at him.

"Fine, have it! I read it already, as well as like a million other things." I turn my attention away from dad and look at Justin. The sight of his ashen face makes my stomach twist, but I'm too angry to stop myself. "I guess that explains your fucked up hand, right?"

Justin flinches. Dad's face darkens. As he takes another step towards me, he warns, "Don't talk to him like that. Apologise."

His command isn't outwardly angry or forceful, but it is demanding in this oddly quiet way. Something about it pisses me right off. Glowering at him, I spit, "Fuck off."

He recoils like he's been burnt. Melanie and Lindsay react identically: their jaws drop, their eyes bug out of their heads, and then they round on me, yelling in unison, _"Gus!"_  


"You do not talk to your father like that," Melanie snarls.

"Gus, apologise," Lindsay pleads.

That nasty voice that lurks deep inside rises up, and up, and up, emerging from within with a vengeance. Suddenly, I'm saying the worst thing I've ever said: "What, to the sperm donor? No way."

I hear myself say it and find myself thinking:  _did I actually just say that?_ As I'm processing it, time slows down. The following moments crawl by excruciatingly. The first thing that happens is that Lindsay gasps, sounding completely stunned. Melanie looks at me in utter shock, then turns her gaze to dad. I do the same, and instantly wish I hadn't. He's staring at me with anguish slashed across his face, so stark it's like the red paint splattered across that ghastly painting of Justin. Then dad's face falls. He looks crushed. I feel crushed. I hate myself. He turns and leaves the room. I hate myself even more. Justin bolts after him, but not before staring at me, totally horrified. The look he gives me stabs me right in the gut.

It's official: I'm a monster. No wonder they all hate me so much.

Melanie stands up and points upstairs. Her tone is more severe than I've ever heard it as she orders, "Go to your room."

I'm so stunned that I'm glued to the spot. They seem to interpret this as defiance. As Melanie repeats her command icily, Lindsay shakes her head and stares at me sadly. "Do as she says." 

My limbs feel heavy. I am leaden with guilt. Climbing the stairs seems like an impossible task.

"Go," Lindsay snaps shakily, _"Now."_

"You are not to come down until you're ready to apologise to your dad," Melanie warns. 

Apologising to dad seems even more impossible, so up the stairs I go. My stomach twists and turns with every step. Distantly, in the kitchen, I can hear Justin saying, "He didn't mean it. He loves you.  _He loves you."_  


He keeps saying it, like dad is in dire need of convincing. I'm a monster, I'm a monster, I'm a monster. Horrified with myself, I take the last few steps two at a time and barricade myself in my room. Then, with my face buried in my pillow, I burst into tears.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally planned for this to be three chapters but I ended up writing more than I had originally anticipated! So I split the final part in half. Here are chapters 3 and 4 - I hope you enjoy :)

"What did you  _do?"_

Whoever invented little sisters was a sadist. Whoever let them have access to bobby pins, even more so. J.R. has, once again, lock-picked her way into my room and is hellbent on harassing me. I ignore her and burrow further under my blankets.

She comes and tugs them off me, then throws them across the room. "What. Did. You.  _DO?"_  


"Nothing!"I glare at her. "Get out of my room!"

J.R. plants her hands on her hips, looking every bit like Melanie. It's a most unwelcome sight. She narrows her eyes and says icily, "No. You need to tell me what you did to make everyone so sad."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say stubbornly. I grab a magazine from my nightstand and flick through it idly. "Now shoo, fly."

Of course, it's never that easy with my annoying little gnat of a sister. She picks up a pillow from the floor and thwacks my legs with it. "Mom won't stop crying. Mama is all angry. Brian looks like he got attacked by a Dementor."

"Nerd," I mutter. She whacks me again. I want to tell her to piss off, but I've already way over-indulged the nasty voice inside me today and I don't want to do any more harm. So I zip my lip, toss my magazine aside, and crush my face into my pillow. Hopefully, this way, none of the ugly words that I'm thinking will come spilling out.

J.R. thumps the pillow against my legs again, but more gently this time. Then she sits down next to me and says quietly, "Justin is trying really hard to make everyone feel better but it's not working and he looks like he's about to burst into tears. They're scaring me."

I don't like how small her voice sounds. It reminds me of mom crying, and Justin staring at me in horror, and dad... well, I don't want to think about the look on dad's face. I turn away and face the wall. J.R. places her hand on my arm, like she's trying to comfort me. I don't deserve it. I nudge her away and mumble, "Please just go. Don't you have somewhere to be, anyway?"

"Tara's mom is picking me up soon," J.R. says. Even though I'm staring at the wall, I can still feel her eyes boring into me. "I'm going to be at her's all weekend... have fun with the mess you made, I guess."

She tosses the pillow at me, then turns on her heel and leaves. I clutch the pillow to my chest and press my hands to my face. It feels better, lying here like this. And by 'better', I mean, I feel marginally less overwhelmed by self-hatred. Really marginally. Like, the tiniest sliver of a fraction.

I haven't fought with dad in ages. Most of the time, we get along fine. Dad's easy to get along with. He gets me, at least about as much as someone his age can possibly get someone my age. Actually, I kind of think we're pretty close. Or, at least, we were. I've fucked that up now, haven't I?

As I lie here all on my own, I think back to the only other real fight that dad and I have ever had. It was years ago, when dad told me he and Justin wouldn't ever get married (they clearly have a history of being dishonest with me). I remember yelling at him and moms until I was on the verge of tears. I did the same thing I'm doing now - I holed up in my room and refused to come down, at least until Justin came and talked me through everything. But Justin's not coming this time. He probably hates me. Fuck, let's be realistic: he definitely hates me. Worst of all, I can't blame him. I totally deserve it. 

It's well past dinner time and nobody has shown up. It's crystal fucking clear: they're leaving me up here. It's up to me to come down and in order to do that, I have to apologise to dad. But how do I do that? Where do I even begin?

What was it Justin told me to do last time?  _Tell them that you're sorry and that you love them. That'll make it all better._

Is that even going to work now? Is it going to be enough? Last time I told dad that I hated him and that he was stupid. This time I called him a sperm donor. Fuck!

I hate myself, I hate myself, I **_hate_ ** myself.

The shame is so big inside me that I don't think I can get out of bed. Even if I do get out of bed, I don't think I'll ever make it downstairs. And if by some miracle I did make it that far, I really don't think I'll be able to face them and I don't think my apology will be worth crap. 

But what other option do I have? Stay up here and die a slow, painful death from the toxic levels of guilt that I'm feeling? Let dad think that I don't love him? 

I can't do that. I won't do that.

So, with my heart in my throat, I creep downstairs, taking my time so as not to make a noise. I've done this a million billion times - I know exactly what foot placement is needed to ensure total silence. It's an art form that I've been perfecting since I was about six.

I make it into the living room without anyone noticing me. They're all bundled up on the couch watching a movie, their attention turned across the room to the TV, far away from where I'm standing. My eyes struggle to adjust to the dimly lit room; the only light is what's spilling from the TV. As the scene brightens, light splashes over everyone. Melanie and Lindsay are curled up next to each other, like always, with Melanie's arm around Lindsay's shoulders. Lindsay is holding dad's hand. He's lounging in Justin's arms, while Justin runs his hand through dad's hair. J.R. might be a total geek and a pain in my ass, but she was right - dad looks like he's had the essence drained from him. I don't even think he's watching the movie, it seems like he's just staring into space. Guilt snakes its way around me, squeezing me tight.

Once when I was visiting dad and Justin, when I was maybe seven or eight, I hurt myself playing in the park. I was climbing a rock and was almost at the top when I lost my footing and I fell. One minute I was on top of the world and the next I was screaming in a pile of leaves, my left leg totally shredded. Justin held me while dad cleaned the wound and fixed me up with bandages. As I cried, Justin cradled me in his arms and whispered, "You're being so brave. You're just like your dad."

Bravery is definitely the name of the game right now. I approach the couch slowly, still disguising my presence by tiptoeing across the carpet. I lean over the back of the couch and tap dad's shoulder. He starts and glances up at me. I can feel everyone else looking too. A hot blush creeps up my face. I want to reach out to hold dad's hand but maybe I shouldn't. I don't feel like I have the right, not after what I said. So I don't touch. I just look him in the eye and whisper, "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I love you."

He looks so relieved that it seems like he might cry. It turns the lump in my throat into tears on my face. Dad grabs my arms and lifts me up, like I'm still six instead of thirteen, and hauls me over the couch. I end up in his arms with him clinging to me. I burrow in deep and cry into his chest. Dad kisses my head and whispers, "I love you, kiddo."

"I didn't mean it," I murmur, as three other pairs of arms wind around us. "I really didn't. Do you forgive me?"

"Of course I do," dad says, wrapping me up so tight we feel like the same person. "I love you."

"We all do," Lindsay -  _mom -_ says, squeezing me almost as hard as dad is. "We love you, baby."  


Only a few hours ago, it seemed there was no greater indignity than her calling me 'baby'. Now it soothes me, to know she could still love me after the hell that has been the past two weeks and especially after everything that's happened today.

As though he's read my mind, Justin leans in closer, brushes my hair out of my face, and says firmly, "We really do. We love you, Gussy."

I've had so much trouble believing that lately. I'm still having trouble adding certain things up: why they were so willing to punish me so severely for one stupid mistake and, worse, why they'd lie and hide the truth from me. But Justin is looking at me with such intense sincerity, I can't not believe him. I try to smile at him, but my face won't cooperate. I'm too tired. I'm still hurting. There's still that reel of ugly words spinning around and around in my mind:  _attackedbashedbrutalisedinjuredmaimedincapacitatedenduringlong-lastingpermanenttraumatisedtraumatisedtraumatised._

Overcome with exhaustion, I sink into dad's embrace and close my eyes. My head comes to rest on his chest, where I can listen in to the thrum of his heartbeat. He sighs contentedly and holds me tight. I feel like a little kid again but honestly, right now, I don't really mind.

*

After the movie, I get sent straight to bed. Apparently 'it's been a long day' and 'we'll all talk in the morning'. I choose to go silently, although I'm sorely tempted to point out that it's only half past nine and I'm not a little kid anymore. I know they won't listen and I don't want to push my luck. So off to my room I go.

I sure as hell don't stay there, though. I listen as my parents make their way towards Melanie's study, which is where they always congregate for really serious discussions. As soon as I hear them shut the door and turn the latch, I sneak back out of my room and head for the crawl-space. I'm getting too big for it, but I can still make my way through it comfortably and quietly enough. I find the spot behind Melanie's study and slide down slowly, until I'm cooped up cozily in the narrow space. They're probably going to be talking for a while, so I may as well try to get somewhat comfortable. I pull my knees to my chest and rest my chin on them, then tune in to whatever it is that Justin's saying.

His tone is measured, but there's this slight edge of despair to it that piques my interest. "I feel that I ought to reiterate that I _always_ thought that this was a disproportionate response."

"Justin,  _please,"_ Melanie snaps. "He's thirteen. He's too young to be drinking, and yet, old enough to know better. We had to punish him."

"I never said we shouldn't punish him, I only said that the punishment chosen was disproportionate! Gus and Ruby are great kids."

I can practically hear Melanie shaking her head. "If we want them to stay great kids-"

"-we should punish them with ludicrous severity until they're totally alienated from us and overloaded with resentment?"

As Melanie and Justin continue arguing, I feel a slight stab of guilt. I've been as hard on Justin as the rest of them and, evidently, I shouldn't have been. I should have known he'd be on my side. Justin has always had my back.

Fortunately, their bickering is soon interrupted by mom, who says softly, "I agree with Justin. We've been way too hard on him."

"Lindsay!" Melanie sounds scandalised. "Look at what he did today!"

"Can we address that briefly?" Dad sounds pretty pissed off. "Why the fuck was he even able to get into that room? Wasn't it locked?"

"It was," mom retorts defensively. "Of course it was. But Gus knows where the keys are kept."

"Well," dad scoffs, "Why not just give him a hand-written invitation?"

"I've been locking him in every day! I can't very well leave him there without any way of getting out. What if there was an emergency?"

"Last I checked, the way out wasn't through the archives! Why did you leave him with _that_ key?!"

I can hear that mom and dad are getting increasingly irate with each other. Fortunately, Justin cuts in. Justin always knows when to intervene. "Aren't we getting off-topic here? Look, obviously we're going to have to talk to Gus about what happened that night. There's no going back now."

That stings. Does he really want to go back? Why does he want to keep this hidden from me? I thought that Justin and I trusted each other.

There's a long pause that sounds so horribly tense that it starts to creep under my skin. At long last, Justin says, "Leave the prom stuff up to Brian and me. Why don't we focus on how we're going to fix this situation?"

Melanie scoffs. "You mean the situation where our thirteen-year-old kid skipped school and got drunk with his thirteen-year-old friend? Oh, and did I mention that they're thirteen?"

"The situation where Gus loathes the four of us to hell and back because we were too hard on him!"

Once again, Melanie and Justin devolve into bickering, at least until Lindsay sighs heavily and says, "Mel, come on. Justin's right. He wouldn't be acting out if we hadn't come down on him so hard."

"What are you suggesting?" Melanie asks, sounding two parts skeptical and one part resigned. I don't blame her - mom's on Justin's side now, and I'd bet everything I have that dad is going to join their ranks any second now.

"I think he should be able to go to New York," moms says, so softly that I almost miss it. "It's not fair to keep him away from you two. And, really... in the end, aren't we punishing you as well?"

"I always thought so," dad says, bitterness lurking in his voice.

"It's not like we're planning on giving him a free ride," Justin points out hastily. "He should still be grounded. We'll apply all the same rules: no technology, and he comes with one of us to work so he's supervised."

"I think that sounds good," mom says. I don't have X-Ray vision or anything, but I guarantee she's smiling and nodding at Justin in that way of theirs. It sounds like they're sitting close to each other, so they're probably holding hands, too. Mom and Justin have always shared a steadfast alliance. I think it's kind of endearing, whereas Melanie and dad seem to pole-vault back and forth between finding it amusing and finding it irritating as all hell.

Like I predicted he would, dad sides with them. "I think that sounds great. We'll make it clear that if he messes up, it's straight back here. Or to Pittsburgh to stay with Deb for the rest of the summer. Take it from someone who learned the hard way: she doesn't put up with underage drinking."

"Did she smack you one?" Justin asks, laughing. 

Melanie snorts. "One can only hope."

Dad doesn't say anything to that. My gut says he's flipping the two of them off.

Sounding hopeful, mom asks, "So are we agreed?"

Melanie sighs, like she's endured a great strain, and says wearily, "Fine. We'll take the soft-hearted approach-"

"The compassionate approach," Justin snarks. I bet that earnt him a look.

"-and we'll let him go to New York. But you two had better make sure-"

"We'll take care of it," dad promises. 

I keep quiet as they say their goodnights and head out of the study. Justin and dad seem to be the last to go. After a spell of silence, Justin asks gently, "Are you coming to bed?"

"In a minute," dad replies. I think I hear them kiss. They're always kissing, those two. It's like it's their primary form of sustenance or something.

As Justin's footsteps retreat out of the study and down the hall, I hear dad's chair creak. Then - what the fuck?- he seems to be approaching the wall. Shit. There is no way that he-

_Knock, knock, knock._

Fuck. He knows I'm in here. I swear, dad is an all-knowing being. Sometimes it impresses me, but right now it's creeping me the fuck out. How did he know?!

As I sneak back out of the crawl space, he's waiting for me, leaning against the wall opposite with his hands behind his back and his eyebrows raised. "Hear anything interesting, Sonny Boy?"

"I'm glad I get to go to New York," I say, grinning winningly at him.

Smiling wryly, he shakes his head at me. "Just be sure to act surprised when the munchers announce it tomorrow."

"Stop calling them that," I grumble, shuddering at the traumatic memories that term induces. Dad smirks without so much as a hint of regret. As I take a step towards him, he reaches out with one hand and brushes a smattering of dust off my shirt and out of my hair. I grab his hand and thread my fingers through his. The smirk fades from his face, only to be replaced by a slightly uncertain smile. I bring his hand to my mouth and kiss it gently, then dive into his arms. His arms lock tightly around me. I'm tall enough now that I can press my face into his shoulder. As I do, his hand comes to rest at the back of my head, holding me close. With my face hidden, I whisper, "I love you, dad."

He kisses the top of my head and whispers back, "I love you, too."


	4. Chapter 4

The very next day, my dads take me to New York. It's one hell of a process, though. Before I'm allowed to leave, I'm made to sit through an hour-long 'family meeting' where I'm forced to relive all of my recent failings. The skipping. The drinking. The 'bad attitude'. The breaking into the archive room. I very nearly point out that I didn't 'break in' because I had a  _key,_ but then Justin nudges my leg under the table. I look at him and he shakes his head ever so slightly, so it's practically imperceptible. I clamp my mouth shut and make a mental note to thank him later. He's probably just saved my ass. It's hard to make my mouth stay shut for the rest of the meeting since I disagree with 95% of what they're saying, but I figure that putting up with their sanctimonious nonsense is preferable to losing my shit and getting myself into more trouble. I can see New York on the horizon and I'm not going to let it slip away.

When they've finally finished saying their piece, Justin leans in and looks at me intently. "Is there anything you want to say, Gussy?"

It's like music to my ears. Moms never asked me that - they leapt from admonishing me for fucking up to punishing me, without so much as sparing a single thought as to why Ruby and I did what we did. As I smile gratefully at Justin, he smiles back and says softly, "We're listening."

They are. I'm suddenly very aware of four sets of eyes pinned to me with varying incarnations of intrigue. Mom looks concerned, Melanie looks kind of wary, Justin just seems very understanding, and dad looks predictably  _laissez faire_ about the whole thing. It's kind of unsettling after two weeks of being shut down and ignored. As I attempt to re-adapt, I sit up straight and say, "I'm sorry for how hurtful I was yesterday. Really."

I look at dad and he nods. Even though it's the slightest of gestures, it does a lot to reassure me. So I continue, "But it hurt me a lot when you all reacted the way you did. And it hurt that you hid... _that_ from me. You're all always saying how we're supposed to talk, and respect each other, and trust each other... but isn't that supposed to go both ways?"

"It absolutely should," mom says, reaching across the table to touch my hand. "How about we all promise to do better?"

"Okay," I agree. I look around at each one of them and they nod and agree as well. I put on my best smile, stand up, and ask cheerfully, "Can we go now or what?"

Justin and dad both snort and shake their heads in amusement. Mom stands up, followed by Melanie, and says very solemnly, "One more thing."

As she and Melanie approach me, I prepare myself for the worst. What's it going to be? An ankle monitor? No, that's not reliable enough. They're probably more into those GPS implants. Melanie's probably wielding one of those injector guns behind her back. 

Nope, it's even more sadistic. It's a good old fashioned hug attack. Ugh. They inflict maximum damage: squeezing me, kissing me, ruffling my hair, cooing affectionately at me. I look at dad and Justin, praying that they'll save me, but they're grinning and laughing. Assholes.

When, at last, mom and Melanie relinquish their grasp on me, Melanie presses a horribly smoochy kiss to my forehead and says, "Love you,  _muffin."_  


She hasn't called me that since I was, what, five? I narrow my eyes at her. She retaliates by dropping an even smoochier kiss to my forehead. Melanie never fights fair. Then she places her hands on my shoulders and pushes me backwards, dropping me right back into mom's arms. Mom bundles me up and whispers, "We all do. We will never not love you."

I glance at dad and Justin. They've stopped laughing. Justin nods again while dad raises his eyebrows and smiles, each of them cosigning mom's vow. All the loneliness and frustration from the past fortnight fades away.  _We will never not love you._ Words to remember, I reckon.

*

As soon as we arrive in New York, I feel actually happy again. I felt better this morning, but not good by any means. I kind of think I was beginning to forget what happiness feels like. But then we're touching down, then we're driving home, then we're back at dad and Justin's apartment, and there it is: happiness.  _Welcome back,_ I think, smiling to myself,  _try not to stay away for so long next time, okay?_  


Dad disappears straight away, explaining he needs to sort out some work stuff. I guess that's probably the truth. I still have this uncertainty lingering within me, this tiny, suspicious voice that keeps whispering:  _has he really forgiven me?_ On the way to the airport, I tried apologising again and he shrugged it off, joking about how I'm 'genetically predisposed' towards such behaviours. Justin seemed to find that hilarious, for some reason. Then dad told me to stop apologising and said that I didn't need to be sorry anymore. That's easier said than done, isn't it? I think I'm going to be sorry for what I said for the rest of my life.

Swimming with guilt, I seek out Justin. He's getting dinner ready. As I slink into the kitchen, I'm delighted to discover he's making my favourite. I breathe in the delicious scent of the mac and cheese as it cooks; it's so good, it very nearly induces a high in me. Moms have been making their favourites and J.R.'s favourites for weeks now. I've missed my food.

Feeling even happier, I sit down next to Justin at the island. He throws a quick smile my way then returns to chopping vegetables for the mandatory salad. Silently, I grab the bowl and start filling it with the veggies. Justin smiles at me again. "Thanks, Gussy."

"S'okay." As I wait for him to finish with the tomatoes, I grab his iPod and turn on our favourite playlist. A grin blossoms on Justin's face. It's totally infectious. I don't have to wonder whether Justin has forgiven me anymore - it's obvious he has. I lean in closer to him and bump him, pleased when he bumps me back. We fall into the routine we've had carved out since I was six: we prepare the salad together, working in perfect harmony, all while singing and dancing along to our dinnertime playlist. It's not complete yet, though. I wait for it, and wait for it, until finally, there it is. Dad appears in the doorway, leans against the frame, and watches us with that look on his face - that really sweet, soft look, that Justin once told me not many people get to see.  _Now_ everything feels complete. I grin at dad and he grins right back. It sends my happiness into overdrive.

*

It goes into freefall after dinner. While dad clears up the plates, Justin asks me to come and join him in the lounge. That's the New York location for really serious discussions. Justin sits on the couch and I take up residence in the armchair. While we wait for dad, I watch Justin carefully. He's trying to look calm but it's clear he's anything but: his shoulders are tense, his mouth is drawn into a tight line, and he's staring at the bookshelf with this vacant expression.

"We don't have to do this," I say, dread coiling in the pit of my belly. "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it."

Justin shakes his head. "We do have to do this. It's time we were honest with you."

I sink deeper into the armchair. Justin stands up abruptly and strides over to the bookshelf, then returns with a photo album. He hands it to me and says, "The version that you heard from Aunty Daphne wasn't completely untrue, just so you know. Have a look at that."

The photo album is small, thin, and bright yellow, with a sea of colourful tulips all over the cover. I flip it open and pore through it. There aren't any photos of dad (why not?) but tonnes of Justin and Daphne. They're grinning exuberantly, and I'm reminded of something Daphne always said when she would tell me the fairy-tale version:  _it was one of the happiest nights of our lives._  


In the back, there's a note from Daphne. In her curly script, surrounded by hearts and smiley faces, she's written:  _Something to "remember" it by. I'll always remember for the both of us. Love always, Daphne xoxo_  


I glance at Justin. "What does that mean?"

As dad comes and joins us, sitting right next to Justin so there's not an inch of space between them, Justin says quietly, "I don't remember that night. There are bits and pieces that have come back to me over the years, but for the most part, it's gone."

My stomach sinks. I drop my head and stare at Daphne's note, fighting the lump that's forming in my throat. Unevenly, Justin continues, "I'm guessing you know a lot now from what you read in those articles."

"Yeah," I say, feeling a twist of remorse. "Um, sorry."

"Don't be," dad says. "We understand."

I've never heard his voice like that before. It's frighteningly hollow. Clutching the photo album close, I look at them. The colour has drained from Justin's face again and dad's is all shadowed. They're holding hands, but not like I've ever seen them hold hands - it's more of a death grip, than anything else. I'm honestly concerned for their circulation.

Then dad breathes in deep, slowly and carefully, before releasing it raggedly. When I look up, I see his eyes are damp. He takes a moment, then starts to speak.

It's as vivid as Daphne's retelling, but the similarities end there. Dad's version of events is ugly, and scary, and heartbreaking. I can see it all: Justin and dad kissing, dad watching Justin leave, that psycho hunting Justin down and swinging the bat. When Justin cuts in to say that dad tried to save him, I can hear dad's panicked scream ringing through my mind. It echoes and echoes, falling into rhythm with that gruesome chant of words:  _attackedbashedbrutalisedinjuredmaimedincapacitatedenduringlong-lastingpermanenttraumatisedtraumatisedtraumatised._  


There are no pretty lights. There is no empty dancefloor. There's no love song to set this to, nor is there any happy ending in sight. This story is lonely and agonising and haunting. I wish Daphne were here, holding me in her arms, grinning her beautiful grin, but she's not. Instead, I'm alone with dad and Justin, who both look like they've seen a ghost. There is pain bleeding through their every word. 

I want it to stop, but how can I possibly admit to that? I started this.

Eventually, dad falls silent and hangs his head. His sense of weariness is contagious. Justin looks at me for a really long time, then asks gently, "Do you have any questions?"

I do, but I wish I didn't. I have this swarm of questions gathered uncomfortably in my mind, but I know most of them shouldn't be asked. I know hearing the answers won't do me any good. So I fight the urge to ask most of them and select one - the least harmful one, I hope. "Do you have a scar?"

Justin nods. 

"Can I see it?"

He hesitates, then nods again. I stand up and approach him slowly. He combs a hand through his hair, pushing it aside. I lean in close and look carefully. It takes me a moment, but then I find it. It's this tiny little squiggle of pale, gnarled flesh, so faded it's barely visible. I run my index finger over it and learn it through touch; the twisted formation of it, how it protrudes ever so slightly. As I trace it gently, Justin swallows loudly. When I look at him, there are tears in his eyes. I stop touching the scar. I place my hands on his trembling shoulders and kiss the spot very softly, then drop down next to him on the couch and pull him into a hug. Justin kisses my forehead; as he does, a few of his tears fall. I can feel their dampness in my hair. 

"We didn't keep this from you because we don't love you, or because we don't trust you or respect you," dad says, his words wavering. "We kept this from you because it... it was horrible."

"And we've both had a lot of trouble handling it," Justin admits, hugging me nice and close. "We weren't sure if you could."

"I can." I say it like a promise, but it feels false. I hide my face in Justin's shoulder so I don't give myself away. "I can handle it, it's okay."

"Okay," Justin murmurs, his embrace growing a fraction tighter. "If that changes, you let us know."

*

It changes, alright. After they send me off to bed, I lie staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. I can't keep up the lie. I can't pretend that I'm okay.

I know they wouldn't want me to, so I don't. I slip out of bed and go to find them. The apartment is dark, so they must have gone off to bed as well. It's early for all of us, but then again, today has been another very long day and tomorrow's going to be even longer. Tomorrow, I continue my sentence at Kinnetik. That should be... interesting. 

I approach their room, hoping that they're still awake and - more importantly - that they're decent. You never know, with those two. However, the door is slightly ajar, which I take as a good sign. I'm about to knock when I glimpse a flash of movement. I position myself closer so that I can peer through the crack into their room, and there I see it: far across the room, right by the window, are dad and Justin. They're dancing. The room is mostly dark, apart from the faint moonlight spilling through the windows. Justin's face is hidden against dad's neck. Dad's eyes are closed and his face looks worn. As they move, I catch something glinting in the moonlight. It's Justin's wedding ring. His left hand is clasped in dad's right, and dad is touching the ring, smoothing his finger over the band tenderly.

Hanging back in the shadows, I watch them for a while. They stay embracing, swaying, dancing slowly but fluidly under the moonlight. I watch them until the image is imprinted in my mind.

Then I go to bed and fall straight to sleep.

*

Unfortunately, there are other images imprinted in my mind: crime scene tape, blood-slicked asphalt, Justin's bruised and bloodied face. These images attack me from all angles, paired with haunting sounds: dad screaming, aluminum cracking against bone, and somehow, worst of all, silence. Justin's silence. Justin's nearly-deathly silence.

I wake from the nightmare at 4am. The clock on my bedside glares red numbers at me, which I can just barely make out through my tears. Maybe this is why they kept this from me for so long - I can't handle it, either. I really, really can't. But I don't want them to know that. I should tell them, I know I should, but they'd only end up blaming themselves. 

So instead, I pick up my phone and call Aunty Daphne. She answers on the second ring. "Gus? What's up? Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"I'm okay," I mumble, wiping away my tears. I don't want her to know that I'm crying. "Did I wake you?"

"No," she laughs softly, "Life of a doctor, I'm still up. I'm just getting home, actually."

"Do you have a minute?"

"For you? Always." 

I can hear her keys turning in the door, and then the door creaks open, then clicks shut. Daphne sighs down the phone. "So I hear your dads told you about prom night."

"It was different to the story you told," I murmur, fighting more tears.

"Yeah." She swallows, then inhales shakily. "It doesn't make that one any less real, though. You know that, right?"

I think of dad and Justin embracing, swaying, dancing. I force that image to the fore, refusing to pay any mind to the other ones that are lurking around. "That was the one that stuck."

"It sure was," Daphne says, her smile vivid in her voice. "Hold up, Gussy, I just need to get into my PJs."

While I wait, I stare at my nightstand, at the photo of dad and Justin from when they went to Italy. They're grinning at the camera happily; I pretend that they're here, grinning at me. It helps a little. When Daphne comes back on the line, I say softly, "Hey, Daphne?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you tell me the story again?"

"Of course I will." Daphne takes a deep breath. I do, as well, though mine is jagged from trying to hold back my tears. I've heard this story so many times that I know it by heart. Even though I tried to unlearn it yesterday, it's still embedded into my consciousness. If I close my eyes, I can imagine it: dad and Justin dancing and kissing for everyone to see. So that's what I do. I close my eyes and envisage it, reminding myself,  _this is the part that sticks._ It takes Daphne a while to speak; by the time she does, I'm crying again. Daphne (who I suspect, much like dad, is an all-knowing being) is wise and kind enough not to comment on it. I take another deep breath and get ready for her to take me back. In a gentle tone that's brimming with warmth, which flows right through me, Daphne begins, "Once upon a time..."

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the ending to this. Thank you so, so much for all the wonderful feedback! I really appreciate it and am so grateful to have such lovely readers :)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hoping to post parts 2 and 3 very soon :) Feedback is always very much appreciated. I'm a bit nervous about the direction in which this is headed, so would truly love to hear your thoughts!


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